


so tell me why my gods look like you

by Anonymous



Series: but i love it when you try to save me [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Demisexuality, Dirty Talk, F/F, Female Enjolras, Female Grantaire, First Time, Grinding, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Nipple Play, Pet Names, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Rule 63, Shameless Smut, Submissive Enjolras, Useless Lesbians, Virgin Enjolras, but virginity is a social construct just let my girl get off it doesn't have to be a whole thing, nothing too deep it's self indulgent smut okay it's all very chill, only in passing, well they're bi but you get it, will add more tags when i write the continuation :-)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:42:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25235629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “There’s a part of me, you know, that kind of— kinda wishes I had done it.”Grantaire falters. “You mean—?”Enjolras nods, blush creeping again down her chest. “I don’t know. It was awkward, and I wasn’t really all that attracted to him, but he seemed— decent enough, I don’t know. Maybe it’s because he’s the only person that ever kissed me, but it was nice to— to feel wanted. Even if it was nothing.” She shrugs again, and Grantaire frowns as sadness flickers in her eyes. She huffs a laugh that sounds too self-deprecating to be genuine. “Even if it was bad, at least then I’d know what it’s like.”Grantaire wants to tell her,You’re a fucking goddess and you’re mad at yourself for not letting some rando fuck you?, andYou deserve more than a one-night stand who only cares about shoving his tongue down your throat, and, alarmingly,How can you not know what it’s like to feel wanted when all I ever do is want you?
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Series: but i love it when you try to save me [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2044288
Comments: 16
Kudos: 219
Collections: Anonymous





	so tell me why my gods look like you

**Author's Note:**

> the word document for this fic is titled "oh boy."
> 
> i'm not even part of the les mis fandom but here's 9000 words of incredibly self-indulgent e/r smut, from me to u. i'm planning on writing another chapter that continues immediately after this one that's more from enj's pov and yes, don't worry, it only gets filthier :')
> 
> don't take this too seriously it's just some good wholesome wlw smut
> 
> cw: enjolras talks about kissing some rando guy (the guy in the summary) and very much not liking it

It’s eleven PM on Courfeyrac’s 24 th birthday in a seedy bar and Grantaire can’t think.

She’d been sitting on a questionably sanitary couch in a corner between Bahorel and Cosette, poking through the holes in her ripped jeans and nursing a virgin pina colada. Courfeyrac was absolutely smashed, ages ahead of everyone else, even though they’d all only just arrived: the bar wouldn’t know what hit it, Grantaire told him, and his answering laugh was almost maniacal. Shots downed, he’d been challenging some equally drunk looking girls to a game of darts while Marius, looking equal parts amused and concerned, held him steady.

Courf had insisted on everyone accompanying him out, although he’d quietly taken Grantaire aside afterwards and asked her if she’d be okay, which was sweet but unnecessary; Grantaire knew her limits and had reached a point where she trusted herself around alcohol, though she anticipated plenty of smoke breaks and an eventual quiet exit halfway through the night. For now, though, she was content to watch Courf’s comically atrocious darts skills and gaze out the window listlessly.

She’d done an embarrassing double-take when a flash of blond passed her by outside.

Of course, she knew Enjolras would make an appearance at some point. When Courf said everyone, he meant  _ everyone _ , and their fearless leader was not exempt, much to Enjolras’s chagrin. Grantaire watched Combeferre, Jehan, and Enjolras step into the bar, handing their IDs to the bouncers, Combeferre and his tall frame far more visible over the crowd of people than Enjolras, whose blond curls were the only visible feature to Grantaire. Only her hair and the bright red ribbon holding it up, but the breath disappeared from her lungs nonetheless.

Grantaire knew her crush on Enjolras was hopeless. Enjolras was steadfast, fierce, emotionally unavailable, and the overall antithesis of romance. She was the kind of person Grantaire would’ve made fun of in a darker chapter of her life, and almost did, before quickly realizing that Enjolras was also beautiful, thoughtful, and blushed when people complimented her diction. So Grantaire, in short, was fucked from the very beginning.

Grantaire watched as Courf noticed the trio entering, letting out a yell of celebration in response, and Grantaire could see Combeferre shoot one of his Looks down at Enjolras. As Courf gathered them into his arms and pulled them closer to the rest of their group—closer to Grantaire—her jaw dropped.

Enjolras was showing more skin than Grantaire had ever seen her show before and she couldn’t fucking think: a black tank top and a high-waisted skirt with just the thinnest sliver of skin showing between them when she moved a certain way. For a moment, Grantaire thought Enjolras was trying to kill her: that she had somehow finally gotten it through her dumb, brilliant head that Grantaire was hopelessly in love with her and had decided,  _ yes, tonight is the night I punish this poor mortal.  _

But Enjolras, for all her delicate beauty, looked decidedly uncomfortable, out of her element in the loud bar. She was crossing and uncrossing her arms in front of her and looking around self-consciously, hunching her shoulders forward to make herself inconspicuous. Which was ridiculous, but Grantaire understood. She hadn’t even thought Enjolras owned a skirt—in fact, it looked suspiciously similar to one of Jehan’s—and the croptop doesn’t look like something Enjolras would ever willingly wear anywhere other than her AC-less apartment, and only on the hottest of summer days.

Grantaire is guiltily imagining Enjolras in the morning sunshine, wearing that same top, rolling over in bed as a strap falls down her shoulder, when they meet eyes. 

Enjolras’s eyes light up when she sees Grantaire and she has to actively tamp down on the spring of hope and butterflies she feels in her stomach when Enjolras waves at her. She looks like she’s about to walk over ( _ holy shit holy shit)  _ when someone—Marius—walks over from the bar with a tray of shots. Courf shoves one of them drunkenly into Enjolras’s hands, who protests but eventually cringes and dutifully downs it in synchrony with Courf and Combeferre—a triumvirate in all things, she supposes. She has to force herself to look away from the long line of Enjolras’s throat as she swallows and the subsequent adorable scrunch of her nose at the taste.

Content to people-watch with Bahorel, Grantaire watches her friends play darts, followed by pool after Cosette announces the table is open. They play multiple games, tournament-style, which rapidly decrease in quality as they get drunker; she has to force herself to look away when Enjolras leans over the pool table to clumsily make her shot, and her laugh is genuine when she knocks the cue ball clean off the table and almost trips a man in her scramble to grab it. Jehan, who’s taking a break, nudges her and smirks; Grantaire can’t even find it in herself to defend herself.

An hour goes by, her friends coming and going from the couch next to her as they’re called in to play. She’s watching Combeferre—who is suspiciously good at both darts and pool—until she feels the couch sink to her left. Enjolras is sitting carefully, smoothing and tugging at her skirt as low as it can go which, apparently, is not much further than halfway down her thighs. Grantaire pulls her eyes up and finds herself drowning in the coolest grey gaze she’s ever seen.

“Having fun?” Enjolras asks wryly, the faintest flush on her cheeks (because she’s had a shot and two drinks, Grantaire reminds herself). Enjolras has arranged herself on the couch so she’s facing Grantaire fully, legs drawn up sideways beneath her, a little haphazard.

“An absolute blast,” Grantaire replies, mouth dry. She sips at her drink again. “How did Combeferre get so good at pool?”

“He’s good at everything,” she replies, curls bouncing as she turns her head toward Combeferre, who’s trying to teach Courf how to hold the stick properly, to no avail. “Someone’s gonna get hurt,” she remarks, and Grantaire laughs. Enjolras turns her gaze back to meet hers and they smile at each other, which is nice for all of one second before Grantaire feels it get awkward.

“And are you having fun, Athena?” Grantaire asks, unable to stop the nickname from slipping through.

Enjolras rolls her eyes. “I feel ridiculous,” she deadpans, gesturing to her outfit, though they both know Enjolras wouldn’t enjoy a night out no matter what she was wearing. Her words aren’t as articulate as they usually are, which is oddly endearing. “Jehan insisted on dressing me up tonight.” Grantaire knew it. Her skirt was almost identical to Jehan’s, except hers was white denim where Jehan’s was dark grey.

Grantaire tries to choose her words carefully, but “What do you mean? You look hot,” is what comes out of her mouth unbidden. Enjolras’s cheeks bloom pink and Grantaire backtracks immediately, avoiding her eyes by panning her gaze awkwardly across the bar. “I mean—not like that, just—you look—it’s a cute outfit.” She is never looking at Enjolras again. 

The silence spans just a little too long and Grantaire immediately breaks her promise, glancing back and wincing in anticipation of the uneasy (or worse, disgusted) look she’ll find on Enjolras’s face. What she finds instead is a longing to match her own before Enjolras seems to come back to herself, blinking and smiling and saying, “Thanks.” She tugs at her skirt again. Grantaire sees her briefly make eye contact with Combeferre across the room, who looks away as soon as he sees Grantaire looking.

“Think Courf is gonna throw up tonight?” Grantaire asks, scrambling for something to say. Enjolras snorts, which is delightful.

“That’s not even a question,” she responds, sounding distracted. Grantaire follows her hazy gaze to Jehan, who’s broken away from the group and is sitting next to a scruffy, tall, thin guy at the bar. 

“Think e-boy’s into them?” Grantaire asks, and Enjolras laughs. They watch Jehan drape their arm around his shoulders. 

“Oh, absolutely. They know each other, I think. Jehan’s been staring at him since we got in. I think he’s a friend of Courf’s. Jehan was very particular about their makeup tonight so I think they knew he’d be here.”

Grantaire looks back at Enjolras, who’s still fiddling with her skirt. She’s looking at Jehan and e-boy with a strange expression. “No makeup for you, though?”

She laughs mockingly. “Fuck no.”

“Not on the prowl for e-boys tonight, Athena?”

Enjolras blushes again. “I don’t—I’m not—I couldn’t—” Grantaire had thought the joking in her tone was obvious, but apparently not. 

“It’s alright, it’s okay. You don’t have to seduce any e-boys if you don’t want to,” Grantaire laughs.

Enjolras frowns. “It’s not that I don’t want to…” Grantaire’s heart drops, just a little.  _ Of course she’s fucking straight, _ she thinks despite knowing it’s shitty of her to assume, especially from a half-joking conversation about fucking e-boys of all things.

Enjolras’s frown deepens, almost like she could hear Grantaire’s thoughts. “I mean, I  _ don’t  _ want to. Obviously. I just—I’ve never.” She bites her lip before sipping from her empty glass.

_ Oh.  _ Grantaire swings her gaze from a light fixture in the distance back to Enjolras, who is very red. 

“You’ve never…?”

Enjolras sighs, frustrated. Both hands are resting on her lap now, wringing together over the denim, which rides up slightly. Grantaire pointedly does not look down. “You know,” she says vaguely, and it occurs to Grantaire that Enjolras does not have to be telling her this. But she is. 

She shrugs her shoulders as she looks anywhere except at Grantaire and—just like in Grantaire’s cut-off fantasy—the motion causes one of the straps on her top to fall down her arm. Grantaire’s eyes can’t help but flicker to the movement and she almost chokes when she sees the sight of her, so exposed: the top of her breast, pale and soft and a little flushed, and  _ fuck _ , the realization hits her: she isn’t wearing a bra. Her breasts are small, small enough that she could’ve gotten away with it if her nipples hadn’t been hard and poking through the thin fabric, and yeah, Enjolras is definitely trying to fucking kill her.

Grantaire’s mouth is dry again and she has to fucking force herself to look up from the delicate planes of Enjolras’s chest and shoulder, and when she does Enjolras’s eyes are blown, staring at her with the same expression Grantaire thinks is on her face. She knows Grantaire was looking and she doesn’t try to cover up or turn away or even look offended—all she does is arch her back so slightly, almost imperceptibly, involuntarily. 

Slowly—slow enough that Enjolras would be able to pull away or do it herself—she brushes her fingers, cold from where she’d been holding her drink, up to where the strap is resting on her arm. Gently, she drags it back up Enjolras’s shoulder, who visibly shudders and inhales shakily when Grantaire’s thumb brushes against her warm collarbone. 

Then, Grantaire’s hand is startled away at the feeling of a hand clapping her on the back. Jehan is crouching in front of them and smiling, e-boy waiting a few feet behind. “I’m heading out, my friends,” they say, shooting a look they probably think is subtle at Enjolras, whose eyes are still comically wide. Her arms are wrapped around her ribs now, like she’s trying to hide, but all it does is draw more attention to her tits, which Grantaire, guiltily, finds hot as fuck.

Grantaire nods dumbly, tearing her eyes away from Enj. “Text me when you get back,” she says, and Jehan nods their assent before whispering something in Enjolras’s ear that makes her turn positively scarlet. Then they’re gone, in a whirlwind, their e-boy in tow. 

The moment is gone but Enjolras’s blush is not, and she looks over Grantaire’s shoulder at Combeferre, who’s also approaching them. 

“Courf wants to go to the Corinthe now,” he says, looking between Enjolras and Grantaire warily. “You guys coming?” 

Enjolras looks at her with something unreadable in her eyes, like she wants Grantaire to answer for her: a thought she knows is self-indulgent but which still makes her shudder. Grantaire isn’t sure whether her look is a request to go out or go home, but she just can’t go to another bar tonight, and when has Enjolras enjoyed bars anyway? “No,” she says slowly, “I don’t think I’m up for it.”

Enjolras looks relieved. “Me neither,” she says, “I think I’m gonna go to bed.”

Combeferre looks between them again, but his gaze gives nothing away. “Okay,” he says easily, “both of you text me when you get home. I’ll let Courf know.”

Enjolras nods. “Text me if you need anything.”

Combeferre turns his attention to Grantaire. “You mind walking her home?”

Enjolras bristles, certainly about to insist that she isn’t drunk and doesn’t need to be taken care of, but Grantaire cuts her off before she can. “Of course.”

When Combeferre walks away, Enjolras straightens, sliding her legs off the couch before standing. “I only had one shot an hour ago and all my other drinks were virgins. I lied about it to Courf so he wouldn’t bug me. I’m not drunk, so you don’t have to walk me home if you don’t want to.”

Grantaire watches her sway a little as she stands, though whether it’s from the shot or the fact that her nipples are still visibly poking through her shirt is unclear. “You’re a lightweight,” she teases anyway, “and I already told Combeferre I would. I don’t mind, really.”

Enjolras accepts this more easily than she thought she would. After they’re hugged goodbye multiple times by Courf, they make their way outside the bar, the cool midnight air feeling much colder than it really is in contrast to the crowded heat of the bar. She sees Enjolras wrap her arms around herself and is tempted to offer up her leather jacket but she can’t quite find it in herself; at best, it feels contrived, and at worst, Enjolras would say no. They walk in silence for about two minutes before Grantaire garners the courage to look at Enjolras, and—well. The look on Enjolras’s face is subdued, almost sad, and Grantaire hopes she isn’t the cause of it.

“Why the long face, Athena?” Her voice doesn’t come out as casually as she hoped.

Enjolras sighs. “I don’t know—just.” For someone so articulate on a stage in front of hundreds of people, she’s delightfully stumbling over her words tonight. The tone is the same as it was before, when Enjolras was admitting—something to her.

“Is it—about what you were saying before?” she asks, hoping that’s vague enough as to not be too forward, but she’d be lying to herself if she said she wasn’t curious.

Enjolras makes a little noise in her throat. “Just—it’s so easy for other people.”

“What is?” Grantaire asks, needing to hear her say it.

Their footsteps are the only sound for a minute, then, “I don’t know. Kissing. S-sex,” she stutters.

Grantaires steps falter for a minute and Enjolras glances up at her shyly. “You mean, you’ve never—you’ve never kissed anyone?”

Enjolras cringes, nose scrunching a little adorably. “Once. It was—a few months ago. This guy in my class said he liked my hair and asked me on a date and I guess—I said yes. We went to a bakery and talked, and I don’t know. I didn’t really know what I was doing.” Her gaze is still downward as she tucks a messy blond strand behind her ear. “But he seemed nice. We watched a movie at my apartment. He put his arm around me and it was so—weird. I just froze. I sat like a statue for the full hour and a half. Oh! Uh, this is me.” 

They’re at Enjolras’s apartment now, stopped short in front of the entrance. Grantaire is at a loss until Enjolras speaks again. “Um, you can come up, if you’re not too tired? I have lots of tea.” She looks hopeful and embarrassed and cold and how the fuck is Grantaire supposed to say no?

“I like tea.”

After a silent walk up the stairs, she’s sitting at Enjolras and Combeferre’s familiar kitchen table, and Enjolras is sliding a steaming mug of mint tea in front of her. She mutters a thank you. Enjolras is arranging herself carefully in the chair across from her, still in her skimpy outfit despite how much she seems to want out of it. Grantaire pointedly does not think about it, does not look at it, and does not think about Enjolras’s delicate, still-visible collarbone under her calloused fingers.

Fuck. Grantaire pours some milk in her tea and manufactures a distraction for herself. “So? What happened next? With that guy,” she asks, words stilted.

Enjolras bites at her lip. “Well, we watched that movie. It was a really bad Netflix original, it was so boring. Afterwards, he reached into his pocket and started putting chapstick on, and I was like, shit.”

Grantaire laughs. “Is this a fucking 80s sitcom episode about the dangers of kissing?”

Enjolras cringes. “I know. I tried to stall it because I knew what was coming, so I was kind of making fun of the movie, just saying anything I could think of, and he was laughing, ‘cause the movie was really bad—they just forced a straight romance in at the end, and it was so stupid, the characters had no business being together and they obviously just did it for the—”

“Athena,” she chimes in, unable to keep the smile out of her voice. “You’re rambling.”

Enjolras huffs. “Right. Well, I was complaining about the movie, and I stopped for breath, and then he just—lunged. And he kissed me. And at first I was surprised, ‘cause it was so quick, but I didn’t want to pull away, because I’d never—done it before and I figured I needed the practice.” Grantaire barks out a laugh, despite the ache in her heart at the mental image of someone else kissing Enjolras. Of course Enjolras would kiss for research purposes. “But then a second later he—with his tongue—and it was just—gross. Slimy. So I pulled away.”

Grantaire winces sympathetically. “The dreaded tongue. So what happened next?”

Enjolras’s blush comes back. “I—you’re gonna make fun of me.”

“No, I won’t,” Grantaire assures.

“Well, he stared at me, and I just—laughed.” 

“Oh my god,” Grantaire says, and laughs for real this time, throwing her head back. “That poor fucking guy!”

Enjolras winces. “Shut up! It was just so awkward, I didn’t know what to do. I was scared he’d try to keep going, but I didn’t know how to stop it without making it even more awkward—”

“Laughing in his face wasn’t awkward to you?!”

“—so I just kept laughing and laughing, and then when I stopped, he...”

She paused. “No fucking way,” Grantaire says, incredulous. “He  _ still  _ went back for attempt number two?”

“Yes!” Enjolras says. “No warning either, just went for it again, and he kept—licking and I couldn’t—I just pulled away and apologized and then he got the message. He said sorry for making me uncomfortable and then he left, and—well, that was it.”

Grantaire’s brows furrow, anger bubbling up inside her. “You didn’t have to apologize to him for not wanting to kiss him, you know. He sounded like an asshole anyway.”

Enjolras shrugs. “Yeah. He had shitty taste in movies too.”

Grantaire laughs. “That’s abundantly clear.”

They both take another sip of their teas and Enjolras sighs. 

“There’s a part of me, you know, that kind of— kinda wishes I had done it.”

Grantaire falters. “You mean—?”

Enjolras nods, blush creeping again down her chest. “I don’t know. It was awkward, and I wasn’t really all that attracted to him, but he seemed— decent enough, I don’t know. Maybe it’s because he’s the only person that ever kissed me, but it was nice to— to feel wanted. Even if it was nothing.” She shrugs again, and Grantaire frowns as sadness flickers in her eyes. She huffs a laugh that sounds too self-deprecating to be genuine. “Even if it was bad, at least then I’d know what it’s like.”

Grantaire wants to tell her,  _ You’re a fucking goddess and you’re mad at yourself for not letting some rando fuck you? _ , and _ You deserve more than a one-night stand who only cares about shoving his tongue down your throat,  _ and, alarmingly,  _ How can you not know what it’s like to feel wanted when all I ever do is want you?,  _ but for once tonight she keeps her mouth shut.

“Anyway, yeah. So that’s why I can’t seduce e-boys.”

Grantaire looks at her over her mug and chooses her next words carefully. “No e-girls, either?”

Enjolras’s head jerks in her direction, a little, eyes wide again. “No, I… Like I said. It’s not that I don’t want to, I just—can’t.”

Grantaire hums. She can feel herself blush;  _ Athena likes girls.  _ She has the sudden urge to gaze at the heavens and praise the angels. “Well, maybe you just haven’t found the right e-girl yet.”

Enjolras rolls her eyes. “Yeah, well. Even if I did, she’d try and kiss me and I’d just freeze up and laugh at her, and then where would we be? Maybe I’m—I guess I need to be. Comfortable with someone. Before I can…”

Grantaire nods; she understands. Enjolras is weird about letting people touch her or hug her unless she’s close with them, but once she is, she’s unstoppable. For almost a month after they first met, Grantaire thought she and Combeferre were together because of how much they touched: just casual gestures, arms around each other, ruffling hair. She’d once walked in on them cuddling when Enjolras was particularly drunk, rambling and clinging to Combeferre as he held her, half-asleep. She used to be jealous, and then she’d feel guilty for feeling jealous, before she understood just how unfounded the feeling was.

Idly, still, she wonders if Enjolras would welcome her touch: real touches, though, not like the brush of her fingers against her shoulder like in the bar. She wonders if she’ll ever have the courage to try, and then she takes a look at Enjolras in front of her, more open and soft than she’s ever been allowed to see before, and suddenly she’s speaking. 

“Maybe you just need to practice with someone. Someone comfortable. Then you won’t be as nervous.” She’s actively tamping her hopes down, down, down.

Enjolras meets her gaze and there’s a storm in her grey eyes that Grantaire can’t look away from. 

“Are you—have you ever—um?”

Grantaire’s laugh startles even herself. “Kissed?” Enjolras nods. “I—yeah, yeah. Plenty of times, Enj.”

The nickname isn’t supposed to come out, but it does. Enjolras blinks in surprise when she hears it, and then smiles to herself and drains her tea before setting the cup on the table. She fiddles with the strap of her top, the same one Grantaire had fixed for her in the bar.

“Well, what’s it like for you?”

Grantaire pauses. She was really about to tell her crush of four years her most intimate thoughts on kissing, huh. 

“I don’t know how to explain it without sounding like a poem I would’ve written in high school,” she settles on.

Enjolras perks up. “You write poetry?” Grantaire rolls her eyes. “Just tell me. I’m—curious, how it could be. Just don’t quote Rupi Kaur at me.”

Grantaire smiles, and pauses to think again. “I guess it’s kinda— warm?” She winces at how cliche she sounds. “It depends on the person. It can be nice, slow, fun, relaxing. Almost like slow dancing but wetter.” She laughs when Enjolras grimaces. “Or it can be intense, even thrilling. Like a battle where you wouldn’t mind if you lost.”

Enjolras’s eyes widen a little at that before her face falls. She stares down at her hands wringing together on the tabletop before looking back up at Grantaire. 

“Could you teach me?”

Grantaire freezes. “How to—kiss?” Enjolras is worrying her lip between her teeth again as she hums her assent. “Are you…comfortable? With that? I mean, would you be? With me?” She’s fucking incoherent. 

Enjolras nods, a little too emphatically. Her hand falls away from the edge of the table to her lap, where she clutches the edge of her skirt. “Yes. Very. Are you…?” she freezes, too, eyes widening. “Shit, I’m so sorry, if you’re not comfortable, then obviously, just forget I even—"

“No! I mean, yes, I—of course. I’m comfortable,” Grantaire says, loudly, and quickly falls silent. “Do you—how?”

“I’ll put a movie on.” Grantaire nods, and after Enjolras puts both their mugs in the sink, she follows Enjolras into the living room. Enjolras puts on some indie film Grantaire has never seen—probably a Courf DVD, then—and they sit, almost facing each other, just like in the bar, Grantaire’s arm draped over the back of the sofa.

As the soundtrack plays quietly in the background, Enjolras fidgets nervously, and it occurs to Grantaire just how out of her element she is right now. Part of her feels guilty at the thought of kissing Enjolras: four years of shame and secret glances and wet dreams flood back to her. But the other part of her—the part that actively thinks about how Enjolras’s eyes light up when she sees her from across the room, how she compliments her artwork, how she let Grantaire touch her so gently tonight and shuddered against her fingertips so prettily—that part of her is setting off confetti in her brain.

Enjolras tugs at the hem of her top self-consciously, pulling it down where it had ridden up to expose her tummy, but the tug only exposes more of her chest and Grantaire clears her throat. Enjolras laces her fingers together in her lap and looks at her helplessly. 

“So—um. So, how do we—”

“Calm down, Enj,” Grantaire whispers, and she shifts so she’s a little closer to Enjolras, who doesn’t flinch away. “There’s no rush.”

Enjolras huffs. “Okay,” she acquiesces, and she leans sideways a little into the back of the couch, warm against Grantaire’s arm. She swallows. Grantaire isn’t sure how to begin.

“Let’s go through this systematically,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras nods enthusiastically. Of course she does. “So—his first mistake. Diving right in.” Grantaire shifts closer, again, and their knees touch this time. Enjolras looks down at them, her bare knees against Grantaire’s ripped denim. “You need to be comfortable. Casual.” She’s fucking shaking. “Maybe touch a little, like this,” she says, and the hand that isn’t on the back of the couch slides against the smooth back of Enjolras’s hand, which is still clutching at the hem of her skirt. Grantaire is incredibly careful not to touch her legs, but Enjolras just interlaces their fingers and rests them on top of her thighs, then looks back up at her face. 

Grantaire ignores the warmth she can feel radiating from Enjolras’s skin; her own hands are cold and a little clammy but Enjolras doesn’t seem to care. “Mistake number two,” she continues. “Lunging. You have to lean in, slowly, let it build. Give the other person time to pull away, to process.” She leans in a little closer and it occurs to her that she’s never been this close to Enjolras before. She can see every detail of her face like this: the multicolored flecks in her eyes, the little bump on the bridge of her nose, the smattering of freckles across it and her cheeks. She hovers in, closer, and Enjolras’s hand tightens its grip on hers. “Do you want to initiate? Or do you want me to?”

“You,” she says immediately, and her tongue darts out to lick at her lips. They glisten. They look so fucking soft and, shit, Grantaire is going to feel them. Boldly, she lifts her other hand from where it’s resting on the back of the couch and uses it to brush a stray strand of blond hair out of Enjolras’s eyes, which stare back at her, helpless. She looks overwhelmed already, Grantaire thinks, and slowly she tilts her head and presses her lips to hers.

She feels more than hears the sharp intake of breath against her mouth and pulls away gently. Enjolras’s eyes are still wide open. “Was that okay?” Grantaire asks softly, convinced she’s fucked this up somehow, but Enjolras just nods frantically, fingers twitching where they’re still holding hands.

“Yes, yes, sorry, I just—” her voice is loud and she seems to realize this, blinking before she continues. “I don’t really know what I’m doing. Can we—?” Her lips part as she leans in, a silent question.

Grantaire is dreaming. She has to be. 

Carefully, she moves the hand that’s still dangling uselessly next to Enjolras’s head to cup her cheek, both to assure her and to convince herself that this is fucking happening. Enjolras leans into it, soft skin warm against Grantaire’s calloused palm, and this time they meet in the middle, moving their lips against each other. Grantaire would be content to keep doing this for the rest of her life, not even anything more: just the press of Enj’s soft lips against hers, the warmth of her stuttering breaths, and sweetness of the hesitancy in her movements. It’s obvious she’s inexperienced, but it’s  _ good _ .

It could’ve been seconds or minutes or a whole fucking hour, but unconsciously, Grantaire’s hand moves downward, caressing Enjolras’s pale neck, and Enjolras breaks the kiss with a gasp.  _ Sensitive _ , Grantaire thinks, and for the thousandth time tonight she feels a hot tugging in the pit of her stomach. Her eyes are hungry as Grantaire brushes her thumb back and forth over her pulse point, chest heaving under her paper-thin top.

“And  _ that _ is how to avoid his third mistake,” Grantaire says, voice hardly a whisper. “No tongue right away. It—you kind of have to ease into it. If it’s done right, it’s a non-issue.”

Enjolras doesn’t look like she’s listening to a word she’s saying, but she nods anyway. Her hands, still resting in her lap over the denim of her skirt, are both now clinging to Grantaire’s other hand with something like desperation.

“Can you show me?” Enjolras asks, staring at Grantaire’s lips. As if that’s even a fucking question.

Grantaire leans forward again, and this time Enjolras’s hands come to rest on her shoulders, leaving Grantaire’s hand in the warmth of her lap. Carefully, she drags her thumb back and forth on the smooth skin of her thigh, trying to be soothing but evidently achieving the opposite. 

The kiss is the same as before, except this time she coaxes Enjolras’s mouth open on gasps and sighs in response to the calloused fingers stroking her neck. Shallowly, she licks inside, hears Enjolras’s cut-off moan into her mouth and that’s when she’s officially done for. She keeps licking into her mouth, exploring, and Enjolras just opens her mouth further and  _ takes it _ , clings to her jacket and tries to stifle her pretty sounds. As Grantaire slides her hands to the dip of her waist and listens to the answering gasp, she thinks, idly, that this has definitely stopped being educational. But Enjolras doesn’t seem to care, so neither does she—just squeezes her hands around Enjolras’s waist and pulls her up, closer, so she’s almost in her lap. Enjolras whimpers.

When Grantaire pulls away to catch her breath she takes in the sight before her: the flushed cheeks, fluttering lashes, red parted lips. What she wouldn’t give to be able to draw her right now. She pictures it: watercolor, pinks seeping into gold and grey, the colors and raw expression a stark contrast to the other profiles of Enjolras in her sketchbook: sharp, graphite, carefully controlled. She thinks of the loose lines she’d use for the sprawl of her legs across her lap, the fall of her hair. There’s something in her eyes that she’s never seen before in Enjolras, maybe in anyone, and it’s—terrifying. The strap has fallen down her shoulder again. Her hands are still on Enjolras’s waist and she can feel that beautiful gap between shirt and skirt where her waist is bare.  _ What the fuck am I doing. _

Enjolras shifts where she’s straddling Grantaire’s lap, blushing as she glances down at how her skirt has ridden up, white denim and pale thighs contrasting beautifully with the black fabric of Grantaire’s jeans. 

“Enj—”

“You’re a good teacher,” she whispers, voice breathless and far more wrecked than it has any right to be.

“You’re a quick learner,” Grantaire replies. She wants to slide her hands under Enjolras’s tank, drag them over her collarbones and breasts and see if she can make her shiver like she did in the bar, but Enjolras is so—new to this. Instead, she contents herself with stroking her thumbs over the fever-heat of her waist. 

“I never knew it could be so—” Enjolras squirms again, blushing as she arches into Grantaire’s grip. 

Grantaire presses a chaste kiss to Enjolras’s neck; even that makes her gasp. Grantaire sobers a little.  _ What the  _ fuck _ am I doing. _ “I know. Do you want to stop? We might be going a little fast. I don’t want you to do anything you might regret.”

Enjolras opens her eyes and gazes at her intensely. “I know I’m—new at this. But I’d like to…I mean, if you want. I just—” She shrugs her shoulder where her tank strap has fallen and Grantaire is slowly losing her self-control.

“Enj, I’m not complaining, just—you’ve never done this, and I know you think virginity is a social construct or whatever anti-patriarchal bullshit—”

Enjolras straightens up. “It’s not bullshit--!”

Grantaire moves one of her hands to loosely grip her wrist. “I  _ know _ , Enj, I know. But I don’t want you to do anything you may regret,  _ with _ anyone you may regret. I know you think it’s stupid, but your first—should be with someone special.”

Grantaire is staring down at where their legs are pressed together when she feels Enjolras tap her shoulder, uncertain. She looks back up and is met with—concern?

“Grantaire, I’m sorry, I—” She knew it. This is fucking it. “I wasn’t completely honest with you.”

Grantaire removes her hands from Enjolras’s waist, who sways a little in response before backing up out of her lap and sitting gingerly on the couch. She’s tugging her skirt again, a nervous tic that Grantaire suddenly hates. “It’s okay.”

Enjolras heaves a sigh. “When I said I wanted someone—comfortable, I—”

She feels herself go cold. “Enjolras, if I did anything you didn’t want—”

“No!” And suddenly Enjolras is touching her again, hands squeezing at her own. “That’s not what I meant. It’s—the opposite, really. I wanted— _ you.  _ I have for a long time, and I—” Enjolras snatches her hands back quickly; she looks like she’s about to cry but Grantaire doesn’t have any words. “It was horrible of me not to disclose that before I asked you to—do this with me. Knowing my feelings may have changed your mind and it was deceitful—” Grantaire is almost amused at Enjolras, giving a righteous speech on justice with her shirt practically halfway off and her nipples hard but how can she be when she looks so  _ sad  _ and hold on a fucking second did Enjolras just say that she— “—and I’m sorry. It was so wrong of me, and I understand if you’re uncomfortable, and if you don’t want to be around me anymore then I completely under—" The words flow over her.

“Wait.” 

Enjolras waits.

“You think—you—you like me? Like—”

Enjolras’s face is tense with guilt and Grantaire wants desperately to kiss it away. “Yes, I’m so sorry—”

Grantaire laughs; it bursts out of her unbidden and almost manic and Enjolras looks more startled than anything else, which makes her laugh more.

“So this is how Tongue Guy felt. I guess I deserve that,” Enjolras mumbles, and Grantaire laughs some more before encompassing Enjolras’s hands in her own.

“Sorry, just—you really didn’t know that I’ve had the hugest fucking crush on you since we met?”

Enjolras blinks. 

“Enj, I call you Athena. As in, the goddess?”

She blinks again. “I guess I never made the connection.”

More giggles bubble up in Grantaire’s chest and suddenly, Enjolras’s arms are around her neck, holding her, and Grantaire holds her back, still smiling so hard her cheeks hurt. It’s a few seconds before Enjolras pulls away, studying Grantaire’s face.

“Well, now that we’re on the same page, do you want to…continue the lesson?” Enjolras’s face is flushed and happy and Grantaire has to be dreaming.

“I—yeah, obviously, fuck yes, but are you sure that you really want this?”

Enjolras gives her a look of disbelief before climbing back into her lap. Grantaire, dazed, glances down at where the insides of Enjolras’s warm thighs are pressing against the outsides of her own. The other strap of Enjolras’s top is inching towards the edge of her shoulder and the hem has ridden up so Grantaire can see the soft planes of her stomach as she settles herself on her lap. Grantaire loses herself in that strip of exposed skin until she feels a fidgety hand on her cheek; she looks up to find Enjolras, nervous and wanting, staring at her face, her lips. She almost wants to hide from the intensity in her gaze, but she can’t. She only brings her hands back to that beautiful waist and feels Enjolras shudder under her touch, listens as she whispers in her ear, “You still have a lot to teach me, you know.”

And then they’re kissing again. This time, it’s still hesitant, still tentative, but there’s a certainty to their movements; the slide of Grantaire’s fingers over Enjolras’s ribcage feels delicate but real: solid. Enjolras tastes faintly of vodka and coconut and Grantaire feels tipsy, almost, but different;  _ better _ . She grazes Enjolras’s bottom lip with her teeth and feels a shiver run down her spine at Enjolras’s answering gasp, high and earnest. She wonders what other noises she can coax from Athena.

When she pulls away with a sigh, Enjolras huffs into the space between their lips, a furrow to her brow. “Why did you—”

“Shh,” she soothes, bringing a hand down to Enjolras’s thigh to steady her as she shifts underneath her. Enjolras squirms in response. “Next lesson.” She feels a little lame saying it, but the words make Enjolras blush some more (which, to be fair, isn’t a difficult thing to achieve). 

Slowly, she moves her mouth to Enjolras’s jaw and paints a trail of kisses all along the left side, from her chin to the little freckle just below her ear, which makes her whimper breathlessly and clutch at the shoulders of Grantaire’s jacket when she lingers there.

“Fuck, you’re so sensitive,” she whispers against her neck, and Enjolras whimpers again for her, as if confirming, and  _ fuck _ if that isn’t the prettiest sound she’s ever heard. She slides her hand up from where it’s still settled on her waist to knock the other strap of her tank down her arm and press her mouth to her collarbone, and Enjolras arches desperately into her kiss, keening and turning her head to the side to offer up more of her neck to Grantaire, who nibbles along her collarbone, addicted.

Enjolras cries out, high-pitched and wanton, before untangling one of her hands from Grantaire’s jacket to cover her mouth; the slapping sound it makes as she does is kind of hilarious.

“Too much?” she asks against her clavicle, and Enjolras shifts restlessly.

“Yes,” she says breathlessly, “please don’t stop—” before tugging awkwardly at Grantaire’s jacket. “You always look so fucking good in this,  _ fuck _ , take it off—”

Grantaire laughs, but what can she do but comply? Enjolras sways in her lap as she removes her hands to take off her jacket and she flings it—somewhere—after she does, leaving her in her increasingly uncomfortable jeans and tank top. When she looks back, Enjolras is staring at her like she’s starving, and she’s about to make a snide comment when Enjolras captures her lips again, a surprised noise escaping her as they collide. She wraps her arm around Enjolras’s waist and tangles a hand in her hair as they kiss, and it’s charged as Enjolras runs her warm hands up and down Grantaire’s bare, tattooed arms. 

When Enjolras teases her bottom lip with her tongue— _ a very quick learner, what the fuck _ — she tugs where her hand is bunched up in Enjolras’s hair, and her answering cry surprises her.

“Like having your hair pulled?” she asks, smiling smugly against Enjolras’s cheek. “Gonna have to add that to the list,” and she pulls it again, a little harder, delighting in how she tosses her head back and melts. Taking it as an opportunity, she dives back into kissing Enjolras’s neck, this time leaving an uneven trail down her throat and toward her chest. She’s enamored; she’s never been with anyone quite so responsive before: Enjolras reacts to every touch like she’d shake apart if Grantaire wasn’t there to hold her together. She’s hardly touched her and Enjolras is moaning like she can’t stop herself, pressing her palm back against her lips as if it’ll muffle her sounds.

When she reaches the deep V-neck of Enjolras’s tank, she lingers. Just like in the bar, her nipples are hard and tantalizingly visible through the thin black fabric. She wants to see, to touch, to hear the noises she knows Enjolras will make in response; she glances up at Enjolras, whose eyes are blown and gazing through Grantaire. “ _ Please _ .”

Then, carefully, Grantaire’s fingers are clutching at the top of her shirt and tugging downwards. Enjolras raises her chest up eagerly, as Grantaire tugs the top down just a couple inches so her breasts are exposed and then, suddenly, brings her arms in front of her chest like she’s trying to hide. But Grantaire can see: her breasts are small and round and  _ perfect _ and pressing together a little inadvertently and Grantaire thinks that she could die happy, here, with Enjolras flushed and writhing and essentially shirtless in her lap. 

Gently, she grabs Enjolras’s hands, which are still wringing together in front of her ribs under Grantaire’s gaze. She takes her wrists in her hands and guides them away before leaning in to leave a chaste kiss in the space between her breasts. Her breath is heavy and her blush reaches all the way down her chest, which is oddly adorable. Grantaire isn’t sure what to do, for a moment; Enjolras almost came simply from having her neck bitten and kissed and she doesn’t want to rush this, doesn’t want to overwhelm her. 

But then— Enjolras arches against her, wrists twisting in Grantaire’s grip like she’s trying to free them but doesn’t really want to, offering herself up to Grantaire, and so she takes her.

She lets go of one of her wrists (feeling her clit throb at the whine Enjolras lets out) so she can caress her perfect breasts, starting at the top near her collarbone, which is red with marks, and dragging downward to cup one in her hand, to feel the weight of it in her palm. Enjolras shivers and squirms, thighs tightening their straddle on her lap. Carefully, she teases her thumb toward the pretty pink nipple in the center, flicking it back and forth in rhythm to Enjolras’s whimpers, now muffled by her free hand. 

“Fuck,” Grantaire sighs. “You’re so fucking gorgeous, so perfect like this. Don’t cover your mouth; let me hear you, it’s okay.”

Enjolras shakes her head twice, quickly, hand still clamped over her mouth. “Embarrassing,” she whispers, but Grantaire is close enough to hear her.

“Come on, Athena, you make the prettiest noises for me.” She hadn’t meant to say ‘for me,’ but Enjolras seems to be fine with it. More than fine, really, if the way her moans get louder behind her hand is any indication. Content with this, Grantaire diverts her attention to her other breast, leaning in and sucking pale flesh between her teeth before taking her hard nipple into her mouth. Enjolras almost screams. The hand at her mouth moves frantically to Grantaire’s forearm, clinging; her other hand is immobile, wrist still held in Grantaire’s grip despite her movements. Grantaire sucks gently, laving over the hard bud with her tongue as Enjolras cries out above her, voice pitching upwards, unhindered. “Good girl,” she dares to mutter, half-expected a slap but Enjolras just  _ writhes _ . Fuck, she’s so sensitive, and she likes being  _ praised _ , and— her next thought has her squeezing her thighs together.

“Think you could come like this, Athena?” 

Enjolras makes a helpless noise, some cross between mortified and desperate, and her nails dig into Grantaire’s arm. Her hips shift; her skirt is riding up with every movement and as much as Grantaire wants to touch her there, this seems much more intriguing at the moment.

“R— R, fuck,  _ please _ —”

“Hmm? You wanna come for me, angel?” So much for taking it slow. She dives back in, sucking harder at the sensitive pink bud and rolling her other harshly between her fingers. Enjolras lets out a strangled sob.

“I’ve never— ah _ , ah _ — never come like this before—” She lets go of Grantaire’s arm, leaving crescent moons in her wake, and snakes her hand down between her thighs. Grantaire grabs her wrist with her other hand and pins both of them to her sides before looking up at her. Enjolras’s wrists are twisting in her grip as she whines breathily in protest, her eyes wide.

“What do you mean, like this?” She asks, pressing another kiss to her collarbone. Enjolras huffs and arches forward in little jolts, grinding her hips down on Grantaire’s lap but evidently not garnering the friction she needs. “ _ Like this _ , as in, just from having your tits played with?” She presses a kiss to one soft breast and feels it shiver beneath her lips. “Or  _ like this _ , spread out and pinned down on someone’s lap?”

Enjolras lets out another sob and it’s the prettiest noise she’s ever heard. “Both _ , _ ” she whispers, looking at Grantaire with something akin to awe in her eyes, so strong Grantaire can feel herself start to soak through her jeans.

“Do you want to?”

“Grantaire, fuck—  _ please,  _ yes, but I don’t— I can’t— _ ” _

She strains, tries to move her hands downward again, but Grantaire tightens her grip on Enjolras’s wrists. This time she can feel the way her thighs tighten around Grantaire’s like she wants to squeeze them together, can see her shudder and squirm. She lets out a pitiful little noise that’s such a far cry from the angry, fierce, powerful avenging angel of a leader she’s used to seeing that Grantaire  _ aches _ at the idea of it, that she could tame such a force so easily with hands on her wrists, with her lips on her pretty breasts. 

“Shh,” she soothes, but Enjolras continues to writhe in her grip. “Don’t worry, babygirl, I’ll make you come.” Enjolras gasps at the petname and Grantaire dives back in, biting and sucking every place on her tits that isn’t already bitten pink.

With every moan, all she wants is to flip Enjolras over, pin her down, find out what else she likes. But Enjolras seems to revel in this: being spread out half-naked and desperate on her lap. And to be honest, so does she. There’s time for her, anyway, to find out what else makes her moan. She already has a running list in her head: restraint, praise, dirty talk, having her curls tugged. What else? Would she like being filled, fucked on Grantaire’s fingers? Or maybe on her tongue? Would she like being tied up? Spanked, maybe? She moans against her skin at the thought of Enjolras, ass up in her lap, begging Grantaire to leave handprints on her and— maybe she’s getting ahead of herself.

“Please, please, R,  _ fuck _ —”

There’s a hitch in her voice that makes Grantaire moan again, louder this time, where her lips are wrapped around one abused nipple, and the vibration must do something to Enjolras because she  _ arches _ , almost screaming as she strains against Grantaire’s hands. Carefully, she guides her hands back up to her shoulders and lets go of them.

“You’ll be a good girl and keep them there, won’t you?”

Enjolras cries out brokenly, and Grantaire is definitely pushing limits here but she can’t seem to stop herself, and how could a mere mortal be expected to stay humble with a goddess falling apart right on top of them?

“Yes,  _ ah _ , anything, please, Grantaire—” Her hands tighten on Grantaire’s shoulders, short nails digging into her skin. 

“Never thought it’d be so easy to make you beg,” Grantaire whispers as she slides her mouth down to the sensitive underside of her breast and kisses there, fondling the other with her now-free hand and sliding the other down, along the beautiful curve of her waist to the small of her back, tugging her closer. Enjolras gasps, the movement settling her more firmly on Grantaire’s lap, and  _ fuck _ . She can feel the warm wetness where Enjolras’s pussy is pressed against her thigh, and she brings her other hand down to her hip to hold her in place. 

“ _ Fuck! _ R, Taire,  _ ah!  _ Close, close, please please— _!”  _ Her head is tossed back, back arched desperately against Grantaire’s hands and mouth. She whispers against the hard bud, watching her shiver against her breath.

“Yeah, angel? You wanna come for me? Hardly even touched you and you’re gonna come all over my lap, huh? Such a good girl for me, bet you’ll look so pretty when you come.” Enjolras sobs. “Come on, babygirl, wanna see you—”

And Enjolras, chest heaving, pussy pressed fervently against Grantaire’s thigh, comes.

It’s such a fucking  _ sight _ , her back arched impossibly against her, and fuck, the trembling she can feel in her thighs, the sobbing scream followed by a series of the cutest little whimpers as she shakes through her orgasm. 

Enjolras’s hands are trembling where they’re clutching the nape of Grantaire’s neck but her grip is intense, desperate, like she’ll fall apart if she doesn’t hold on. But she’s falling apart anyway, twitching and grinding and sobbing.  _ Fuck.  _ She’s watching her—  _ Athena _ — fall apart in her lap. She whispers little reassurances unthinkingly, forcing Enjolras’s hips down with one hand in little pulses when Enjolras’s legs give out, helping her ride out her orgasm. She gets to watch, awed as her face morphs through all the stages of it, red and twisted and uncontrolled and  _ beautiful _ . Grantaire can feel wetness seeping through the leg of her jeans.

It seems to last forever before Enjolras finally collapses with another, weaker sob, into the crook of Grantaire’s neck; she’s silent save for her hitching breath and the occasional whimper when an aftershock shakes her. Her grip on Grantaire’s shoulders is weak now, but just as desperate, and Grantaire holds her close, warm everywhere they’re pressed together.

“Fuck,  _ good girl _ , that was beautiful.” Enjolras trembles harder. She brings her hands up to rub the length of her spine and stroke her sweat-damp hair back. Enjolras doesn’t respond. She just breathes, shakily, hiding her face in Grantaire’s neck when another wrung-out moan escapes her under her breath. Grantaire tries to ignore the throbbing her her clit; she wants to cant her hips up, grind against Enjolras’s gorgeous thigh, but she thinks she may have broken Enjolras with sex and she’s not sure she should do anything but press kisses to her cheek and hold her close. Idly, she notices the movie Enjolras had put on is still playing; she can’t find it in herself to pay attention.

Gradually, the trembling dies down, and Enjolras is dead weight in her lap. She kisses her hair before gently guiding her back to get a look at her face, which only results in a tired, protesting whine. She laughs a little and holds her by the waist, lifting her slightly; Enjolras sways as she’s forced upright. From this angle, Grantaire can see, alarmingly, a tear track that’s appeared on her cheek. She’s red: her eyes, her cheeks, her entire chest, her bitten nipples, the hickeys Grantaire hadn’t meant to leave. It’s always been a good color on her.

Enjolras’s eyes are dazed, pupils still blown like she isn’t all there. Grantaire presses another chaste kiss to her lips. “Okay, Athena?”

Enjolras stares at her quizzically for a moment, like she’s struggling to find the words to respond. “I like when you call me that.”

Grantaire can’t stop the grin that spreads across her face; Enjolras’s tone is professional but her voice is absolutely wrecked, breathy and hoarse. She kisses her again, bringing her thumb to trace her cheek: the tear track that cuts its way across her blush. “You like when I call you other names, too, it'd appear.”

Enjolras squirms a little at that and Grantaire can still feel her warmth where she’s pressed against her thigh. Enjolras just stares at her with those clouded, wide eyes, and Grantaire stares back, amused. 

Then the fucking door opens.

Enjolras immediately stiffens, body rigid against Grantaire’s as Combeferre slams the door shut behind him, throwing his keys on the table and immediately pausing.

He stares. She stares back. Enjolras whips her head around to stare, too, before looking down at herself and yanking her top upwards haphazardly.

Combeferre’s expression is blank. Grantaire isn’t quite sure what he’s thinking, walking in on her with his very obviously debauched best friend in her lap, on their shared couch, at approximately two in the morning. She can’t imagine he’s pleased. “Um,” she says, intelligently. Enjolras is still silent, but growing progressively redder by the second. Belatedly, Grantaire wonders if it'd be drawing too much awkward attention to herself to remove her hands from Enj's waist.  


Then Combeferre’s lips twitch into a wry half-smile. “You suck,” he tells Enjolras, “but being as you just won me fifty dollars, I’ll let it slide.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! i'd love to hear what you think in the comments :)
> 
> more to come! (lol get it)


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